


All That is Gold

by Nicnac



Series: From the Ashes a Fire Shall Be Woken [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen, Immortality, Reincarnation, Smauglock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:26:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicnac/pseuds/Nicnac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smaug, now going by Sherlock, meets the reincarnation of his little thief. </p><p>Finally, something *interesting*.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Response to [this kink meme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?view=129333254#t129333254) prompt by, uh... me.

It would be grossly inaccurate to say Sherlock never forgot anything, even if one discounted those bits of information he found dull and unimportant and therefore deleted with extreme prejudice. Two, or perhaps it was three now, millennia was a very long time and it was inevitable that some things would slip from his head without his leave or notice. It _would_ be accurate, however, to say that Sherlock never forgot anything he deemed _interesting._ It was entirely unsurprising, then, that when Mike Stamford walked in with someone in tow, not only did Sherlock know who he was (Army doctor, invalided home – either Afghanistan or Iraq, psychosomatic limp), Smaug remembered exactly who he had been (Come from under the hill, and under the hills and over the hills his paths led. And through the air.  He that walks unseen.  The clue-finder, the web-cutter, the stinging fly. Chosen for the lucky number. He that buries his friends alive and drowns them and draws them alive again from the water. Come from the end of bag, but no bag went over him. Friend of bears and the guest of eagles. Ring-winner and Luckwearer and Barrel-rider. Bilbo Baggins. _Little thief_ ).

(Observation: The man’s face is identical to that of the hobbit Bilbo Baggins – odds, incalculably y small. Observation: Beneath stronger scents of tea and wool and gun oil, the man smells of pipe-weed – Southfarthing Leaf. Conclusion: Man is reincarnation of Bilbo Baggins. Data: Reincarnation is real. Query: How does it _work_?) Finally, Mike had done something _useful_.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine,” Sherlock asked, not because he felt any urgent need to get back to Lestrade, but because he needed to get Bilbo’s attention and see his reaction. Will he remember Sherlock? Smaug? Does he even remember his own past self?

Sherlock watched Bilbo closely during his ensuing exchange with Mike (Phone clearly in trouser pocket. Theory: Mike has incorrectly remembered the phone’s location. Alternative theory: A subconscious instinct to not give belongs to a dragon is overriding common politeness. Alternative theory: A conscious instinct to not give belongings to Sherlock is overriding common politeness. Conclusion: Insufficient data), but was still surprised when a mobile was suddenly being held out to him. “Er, here. Use mine.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Sherlock said, surprised into offering wholly unnecessary courtesies to an almost stranger. (Note: Do not let Mycroft know about this reaction.) But what is a _thief_ doing randomly offering his possessions to a _dragon_? (Theory: Bilbo does not recognize/remember Smaug. Conclusion: Bilbo offers his things to random strangers. Theory:???)

“It’s an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike told Sherlock as he crossed the room to take the proffered phone. Sherlock filed away the information that a reincarnation does not necessarily have the same name as the previous one – just as well, the name Bilbo Baggins would have stuck out like a sore thumb in 21st century London – before taking the phone from Bil- _John_ and beginning to type his message.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked. He needed more data.

“Sorry?”

“Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock said again, for once too excited about the whole potential wealth of information in front of him to mind the repetition.

“Afghanistan,” John replied. He kept talking, but Sherlock ignored it, uninterested in the inevitable reaction to being deduced – confusion, suspicion, anger, or some combination thereof. Instead Sherlock returned John’s phone, having both solved Lestrade’s case and gleaned all the information he could about John off it, shooed off Molly, who’d come back with his coffee, with some offhand comments about her lips, and pretend to work on his computer while figuring out how to keep an eye on this mystery Mike had brought to him.

(Data: He mentioned to Mike he was looking for flatmate this morning. Data: John was an old friend Mike hadn’t seen in a while. Data: Mike had brought John to see Sherlock, a man of no particular importance in his life. Conclusion: He and John were meant to be flatmates.) Of course. Mike was in sparkling form today.

“How do you feel about the violin?” That was a human thing, Sherlock thought. Knowing about people before committing to a close association, like being flatmates.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other,” said Sherlock, wondering if John was always this slow. Bilbo had been slow, but that had been in Rivendell, after he’d gotten old and dull. The little thief had been quick, though, quicker than Smaug even. Of course, that had been back when Smaug’s brain had been bigger and slower and too full of _gemgoldmetal-firebloodrevenge_ to think at all, so perhaps he couldn’t hold John to those standards.

“Oh, you ... you told him about me?” John asked Mike. As though Sherlock needed to be _told_ something so obvious.

“Not a word.” Mike replied.

“Then who said anything about flatmates?” said John

“I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.” Really, Sherlock was tired of these inanities. He’d give John a day to get his thoughts together, then he might be a little less slow. Besides, Sherlock needed to get his riding crop back before Molly touched it, and he needed to prepare him Mind Palace for all the new information about reincarnations he was going to be adding.

“How did you know about Afghanistan?”

“Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.” Sherlock said, pulling on his coat and scarf and ignoring John’s question entirely.  “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

“Is that it?” John said.

“Is that what?”

John gave him a look like it was Sherlock, and not the reincarnation of a thief of a hobbit, who was the odd one in this situation. “We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?”

“Problem?” It seemed perfectly straight-forward to Sherlock.

“We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.” Ah, not enough data. Sherlock could respect that, but he really didn’t have time for it now.

Sherlock gave him once last look up and down, but he had already seen everything he needed to. “I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” Because that was a hobbit thing; they weren’t keen on adventure unless you dropped them right in the middle of it before they realized they’d begun.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” He did that that smile and wink thing that seemed to make him more likable. Just to be on the safe side. “Afternoon.”

This was going to be _interesting_.


	2. Chapter 2

“Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out ... Oh,” John said and Sherlock felt a shock of ~~pain~~ rage shoot through him. Rage _, rage_ , **_rage_** because his hoard was being insulted. But… if his little thief didn’t like his hoard, didn’t want to steal anything from it, then how was Sherlock supposed to keep him and study him and uncover the mysteries of reincarnation? “So this is all ...”

“Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit,” Sherlock said, trying to throw some things into a semblance of order. That had been a complaint of Bilbo’s, hadn’t it? That Smaug’s horde had been the greatest treasure he had ever seen, but it was such a jumbled mess it was hard to appreciate.

It only took a few seconds of that before Sherlock decided to give it up. He liked his hoard as a jumbled mess; he’d just have to try something else. (Data: Hobbits seem to have an affinity for cursed rings. Data: Mycroft could easily obtain a cursed ring. Data: Mycroft might try to take John for himself. Conclusion: Unacceptable level of risk.)

“That’s a skull.” Sherlock looked to John, who was now pointing his cane at the preserved skull of Thorin Oakenshield. Sherlock had displayed it to let aspiring thieves know that even someone who successfully stole Smaug’s hoard lost in the end, but saying as much didn’t seem like a good way to ensure his little thief stayed.

“Friend of mine. When I say ‘friend’ ...”

*~*~*

It wasn’t until Sherlock was about to hail down a taxi to go to the scene of the fourth ‘suicide’ that the solution to his John problem occurred to him. (Data: Young Bilbo loved adventures. Data: John was a young Bilbo. Conclusion: John loved adventures. Hypothesis: John would enjoy solving crime with him.) Sherlock turned around and ran back up to 221B. “You’re a doctor. In fact you’re an Army doctor."

“Yes,” John agreed, clearly not sure what point Sherlock was trying to make yet.

 _“_ Any good?” If Sherlock was going to have John as an assistant, he’d prefer, though not require, it if John was competent at it.

“ _Very_  good,” John assured him.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.”

“Mmm, yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.” Sherlock felt a bit of a smile playing around his lips and he suddenly he realized this was _fun_.

“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.” John’s voice went softer then, but for once Sherlock was sure it wasn’t part of some missed social cue on his part.

“Wanna see some more?” Wait for it…

“Oh  _God_ , yes.” (Conclusion: Hypothesis accepted.)

*~*~*

“The police don’t consult amateurs,” Sherlock concluded, before turning away to the window. He didn’t think John would leave (Data: John showed up at Baker Street after Sherlock’s brief demonstration yesterday. Data: John’s limp was 42% less pronounced leaving 221B for the crime scene than it had been upon arrival. Conclusion: There were 3:1 odds that John’s curiosity and thirst for adventure would outweigh his anger. Conclusion: Acceptable level of risk.), but that didn’t mean Sherlock wanted to see the furious reaction.  
“That ... was amazing.”

Sherlock turned back around, surprised. Sherlock was _never_ surprised. ( _Truly songs and tales fall utterly short of the reality, O Smaug the Chiefest and greatest of Calamities_.) Ah, of course. John was in need of a flatmate, and this would hardly be the first time Bilbo had flattered Smaug to get what he wanted from him. “Do you think so?”

“Of  _course_  it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.” Sherlock watched John closely, but there was nothing, not even the slightest twitch, to indicate he was lying. Clearly, John was either an _actual_ sociopath (Data: Bilbo had not been a sociopath. Data: John had been Bilbo. Conclusion: John being a sociopath was statistically unlikely.), or he was actually telling the truth.

How unexpected.

*~*~*

Sherlock entered 221B, pink suitcase in hand. (Data: John was not here. Data: Thorin’s skull was missing. Data: Mrs. Hudson-not-his-housekeeper had cleaned. Data: John was not here. Conclusion: Mrs. Hudson had taken the skull.) He threw the case down on the couch so he could begin riffling through, careful to leave everything as he found it. (Data: John was not here. Data: There was enough clothing in the case for an overnight stay. Data: There was no laptop in suitcase. Data: John was not here. Data: There was no phone on either the body or in the case. Conclusion:  The killer had the woman’s phone. Data: JOHN WAS NOT HERE.)

Well, he could hardly contact the killer himself, his number might be recognized. He’d have to get John here to do it.

_Baker Street._   
_Come at once if convenient._   
_SH_   


*~*~*

“I’m just saying, it’s  _all_  fine,” John said, looking frighteningly sincere.

(Data: John did not remember he had been Bilbo. Data: John did not know Sherlock was the Sherlock Bilbo had met in Rivendell. Data: John did not know and Bilbo had not known Sherlock was Smaug. Data: John did not remember Smaug had killed people Bilbo had cared about. Theory: It was _not_ all fine. Conclusion: John must not be allowed to remember).

“Good.” Sherlock said softly. “Thank you.”

*~*~*

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded” _(a dragon’s lair)_ “Afghanistan.”

*~*~*

“You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he ... I don’t know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow,” suggested John.

(Data: Parents love their children. Data: Humans suffer a great deal of emotional distress when loved ones die. Data: The emotional impact of any event fades as time passes. Data: Fourteen years was a very long time by human standards. Conclusion: John’s premise was sound, but inaccurate.) “Yeah, but that was  _ages_ ago. Why would she still be upset?”

John just looked at Sherlock, and after a moment, Sherlock glanced around to see everyone else was doing the same, though John’s expression, at least, didn’t imply Sherlock was an inhuman monster. (Data: He _was_. Data: John wasn’t.) “Not good?” he asked John. Humans had so many etiquette rules; Sherlock didn’t understand how he was supposed to keep track of them all.

“Bit not good, yeah,” agreed John, but not with undue censure, from which Sherlock concluded he had been forgiven for his misstep. Good.

*~*~*

Sherlock waved off John’s concerns and headed downstairs (Data: The cabbie outside was a serial killer. Data: Serial killers were dangerous to most people. Data: John did not possess a near-immortal body like Sherlock did.) alone. Outside, leaning against a cab, very likely the same one he and John had been chasing earlier, was their killer.

“Taxi for Sherlock Holmes.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock suppressed a sigh, wondering how in the world humans managed with such tiny little brains. “The bullet they just dug out of the wall’s from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatised to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service...” (Data: John was here, standing behind the police tape.) “...and nerves of steel...” (Data: John recently served in the military. Data: John had picked up a handgun on his way back to 221B earlier. Data: John had shot a man for him. Data John had chased a serial killer through the streets of London with Sherlock data john was not off-put by sherlock’s inability to understand proper social etiquette datajohnhadmadesherlocklaughdatadatadata-Conclusion: MINE!)

Somehow, Sherlock managed to get rid of Lestrade after that – the man could _almost_ be more tenacious than Mycroft when he had a mind to be. Then Sherlock was standing next to John, absorbing his John-ness. It had been a while since Sherlock had acquired a new piece of treasure for his hoard – space was at a premium in the middle of London – and he’d forgotten what a rush it could be. He and John were having a conversation, Sherlock knew, about John killing the cabbie (Data: None of Sherlock’s treasure had ever actively protected _him_ before. Conclusion: John was a superior piece of treasure.) and possibly about Chinese food, but for all that Sherlock was recording every bit of it into his Mind Palace, he wasn’t really paying attention. He had too many details about John to take down to be overly bothered with conversation at the moment. It was only because John was his newest treasure that he was even putting effort into it.

Sherlock probably could have floated in that state of draconic contentment for at least a week – the Stradivarius had lasted him three days, and this was _John_ – if not for what happened next. “Sherlock. That’s him. That’s the man I was talking to you about.”

“I know  _exactly_  who that is,” Sherlock growled, imagining he could feel the angry the angry flickers of fire in his eyes. (Data: Sherlock’s eyes took on flecks of orange when he was upset. Data: Most humans found this tendency disconcerting. Action: He should avoid looking at John until he had gotten it under control.) _Mycroft_.

Sherlock shouldn’t be surprised; Mycroft had tried to steal John once already. Granted, it had been a half-hearted attempt at best, to the point someone more sentimental than Sherlock might be convinced Mycroft was looking out for him. But then, this was hardly the first time that Gandalf had taken a ridiculously circuitous route to take Smaug’s treasure from him. Sherlock supposed he should just be glad there were no dwarves this time.

“So, another case cracked. How very public spirited ... though that’s never really your motivation, is it?” Oh good Lord, he wasn’t about to go into one of his monologues about squandered potential and hobbits holes _now_ , while John was standing right here to overhear and possibly remember, was he?

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock said. He knew what Mycroft’s grand plan was, obviously, but he was hardly going to try to steal John in front of the assembled forces of NSY, even if Lestrade did whatever he said.

“As ever, I’m concerned about you,” said Mycroft.

(Data: Mycroft had told John he was concerned about Sherlock. Data: Mycroft had to have known that John would relate that conversation to Sherlock. Conclusion: Mycroft was deliberately reminding Sherlock about his earlier attempt to steal John.) “Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern,’” Sherlock scoffed. The only time Mycroft was ever concerned about him was when he was concerned about the havoc Smaug could wreak.

Mycroft looked at him in askance. “Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?” God, it was going to be the ‘squandered potential’ talk.

“Oddly enough, no!” snapped Sherlock.

“We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer.” Ah, no it was the ‘people will suffer’ one.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Have I upset Mummy?” He didn’t use Gandalf’s guilt over turning Smaug from dragon into mostly human-formed often because he couldn’t afford Mycroft figuring out that Sherlock actually preferred having opposable thumbs and being small enough to interact with and observe things _properly._ But it was still the best way to get Mycroft to leave and Sherlock needed him gone now before John remembered Bilbo any more than he had already been showing signs of.

Mycroft flinched, and Sherlock went to drive the point home, when John interrupted. “No, no, wait. Mummy? Who’s Mummy?”

“Mother – our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft.” John stared at him abject shock. Mycroft started again, but still didn’t say anything. (Data: Sherlock and Mycroft’s relationship on paper was that of brothers. Data: Sherlock never claimed that relationship unless he absolutely had too. Conclusion: Mycroft had not previously realized how badly Sherlock wanted him to leave, and therefore the extent of John’s importance. Conclusion: Sherlock may have overplayed his hand. 

“Putting on weight again?” Sherlock asked. A petty distraction, and untrue, but reminding Mycroft that he had once been existence’s only fat Maia was always an easy hit.

“Losing it, in fact,” Mycroft quipped back.

“He’s your  _brother_?!” Oh good, John was working his way out of the mental block he fell into.

“Of  _course_  he’s my brother,” Sherlock answered. As much as a parental relationship might be closer to the truth, since it was Gandalf’s fault Smaug was now Sherlock, an older brother was the only thing that was believable.

“So he’s not ...” John said, trailing off.

“Not what?” Sherlock asked. If John said wizard, Sherlock was holding Mycroft solely responsible.

“I dunno – criminal mastermind?” John looked a bit embarrassed at having made the suggestion, which was understandable given criminal mastermind was practically the exact opposite of what Mycroft was. Then again…

“Close enough,” Sherlock said offhandedly.

“For goodness’ sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government.” Which was about as true as Gandalf claiming to be just some person who makes fireworks.

“He  _is_  the British government, when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis,” Sherlock corrected. Mycroft actually _sighed_ in response, which Sherlock took as his cue to leave. “Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic." 

The key to beating Mycroft, at times, was knowing when to walk away. It was enormously hard to leave John there with Mycroft, not that Sherlock was actually going to walk far enough away that he couldn’t immediately turn back around if Mycroft tried anything, but Sherlock had control over his baser instincts and was not going to let them make him give Mycroft the upper hand.

(Data: There were footsteps behind him, belonging to a male, approximately five and a half feet tall, quick like he was trying to catch up. Data: John had left Mycroft behind to come after Sherlock.)

(Conclusion: Good.)


End file.
